


Stopwatch

by Salmon_Pink



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Community: avengerkink, Community: avengers_tables, F/F, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmon_Pink/pseuds/Salmon_Pink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No time for finesse, just heat and touch and the sigh of Sif's breath against Natasha's cheek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stopwatch

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Femslash February](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/femslash+february), for [Avengers Tables](http://avengers-tables.livejournal.com/), prompt "time", and for [Avenger Kink](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/), [prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/4305.html?thread=3000273#t3000273) "Natasha/Sif, Natasha with one leg between Sif's, bringing her off with the friction from her jumpsuit alone".

They don’t actually have time for this. They have exactly nine minutes before Sif is expected at the lower courtyard of the Hub, which has been designated ‘Bifrost Site Delta’, (‘Bifrost Site Alpha’ being in New Mexico). 

Of course, the Bifrost is capable of depositing visiting Asgardians anywhere on Earth, but it’s one less line etched into Fury’s brow to keep interplanetary jumps confined to specific sites that can be constantly monitored.

Nine minutes. They can probably make the walk from Natasha’s private room to the courtyard in three, with Sif’s long strides.

So six minutes then.

The problem is that Natasha knows, vividly and with a wealth of experience informing her knowledge, that if she gives in to Sif, they won’t make it on time.

If she gives in to Sif, there’s a good chance they won’t make it out of her room before _sundown_.

The Asgardians tend to be punctual, simply out of respect to each other, but none of them has ever minded when one is late. They simply smile and shrug it off if Thor strolls up nearly an hour behind schedule, hair and clothes rumpled, Jane grinning beside him and equally dishevelled. Or if Fandral saunters over, lipstick still smeared across his neck and perfume on his skin, usually escorted by at least two smirking SHIELD agents who’ve been sent to retrieve him. Or if Volstagg sheepishly arrives with mustard in his moustache, holding crumpled fast food wrappers behind his back. (Hogun is never late.)

If Natasha gives in to Sif and they are late, because they _will_ be late if she gives in, nobody will blame Sif, or be even the slightest bit annoyed with her.

Natasha, on the other hand, will have to endure a lecture from Fury about responsibility and taking her role as personal ambassador to the Lady Sif seriously. 

Worse, he might stick her on admin duty for week.

So, there are reasons to resist, to not give in to Sif. Multiple reasons.

But then Sif smiles at her, dark and _challenging_ , and Natasha’s already lost.

Sif knows it, recognises Natasha’s acceptance. Her smile grows wider, victorious. “Fair Natasha,” she sighs happily. “I knew you would not deny me.”

Her hands rise to pull at the lacings of her clothing, but Natasha moves, silent and sudden, grabs at Sif’s wrists and holds them fast.

“Five minutes,” she hisses in explanation, but Sif only raises her eyebrows in polite confusion. “We’re on a clock, here.”

Sif’s laughter is rich and warm. “You are not in the mood for romance today, I see,” she grins, but she doesn’t object when Natasha pushes her roughly. Instead her eyes grow narrow, hungrily studying Natasha’s impatience, and when Natasha crowds Sif against the nearest wall, she knows all too well that it is only possible because Sif _allows_ it.

Natasha presses the back of Sif’s wrists to the wall on either side of her head, and Sif breathes through parted lips, the black of her eyes growing deeper, wider.

“Five minutes,” Natasha says again, only her voice is lower, quieter, more intimate.

And then she’s tasting Sif’s gasp, breath breaking across her lips, as she wedges her thigh up between Sif’s legs.

There’s no time to be sweet, but that’s just fine, because Natasha’s never been good at sweet. Sif can coax it out of her, in a way that nobody ever has before, but only when they have the time, only when they have a whole night to curl up together. 

But Natasha has always preferred sex with an _edge_ , and Sif seems to enjoy the rough and tumble of it, winds up exhilarated and panting as she tries to hold Natasha against the bed.

But this time it’s Natasha who is doing the pinning, even if it’s only a pretence due to Sif’s obvious strength. An _enjoyable_ pretence, judging by the sultry noise that escapes Sif’s lips, head falling back against the wall with a dull thud.

Four minutes.

Natasha runs her tongue over the exposed throat, tasting that something inhuman, that something _heavenly_ that is Sif’s skin. She bends her knee more, cocking her leg higher, rubbing between Sif’s thighs and gets another throaty sound. Sif is smiling at her, lazy and heavy-lidded, like they have all the time in the world.

Except they don’t, and Natasha bares her teeth, lets them dig into the seemingly vulnerable flesh of Sif’s neck. She can be as rough as she pleases, knows it won’t leave a mark, but it makes Sif’s hips tilt forward, wrists flexing beneath Natasha’s fingers.

She licks at the skin until it shines, then lets her heated breath break against it, and Sif shivers for the conflict of temperature, laughing softly in a way that vibrates between them everywhere they’re pressed together.

Three minutes.

She braces her weight on the ball of her foot, begins putting more force behind the way she’s rocking her thigh up. Sif’s breathing heavier and heavier, twisting a little but never in a way that threatens to break Natasha’s hold on her. Her back arches, breasts pushing up against Natasha’s own through the fabric of their clothes, and Natasha wants to cup them, squeeze them in that particularly brutal way that always make Sif tremble and moan, but her hands feel like they’re glued to Sif’s wrists.

“C’mon,” she hisses, feeling fresh sweat forming beneath her jumpsuit, feeling the heat from Sif’s cunt against her thigh even through the thick material. She’s working her own hips now, wants Sif’s thigh pushed up between her own legs, but she’s purposely angled herself to keep it from happening. Needs to focus, clock counting down in her mind, even if she’s throbbing and aching for friction.

Two minutes.

“C’mon,” she says again, thumbnails biting into the thin skin over the pulse points in Sif’s wrists. “Want to see you lose it for me, _c’mon_.” Peppering bites all over Sif’s neck, over her shoulders and collarbone and anywhere she can reach. Whole body rocking forwards, pushing all her weight into each thrust and roll of her hips.

Sif laughs again, dirty and rough and only growing more filthy with every passing second. The sound of it _does_ things to Natasha, has since their first encounter, twisting her up inside in the best kind of ways.

Sif’s working the natural rhythm they always find together, meeting every movement of Natasha’s body. Fucking herself down against Natasha’s thigh, and she’s flushed, pink blossoming over her cheeks, eyes bright and shining. Shameless and stunning, grinding on Natasha’s leg, shoulders and back scraping against the wall as the thrusts become rougher, more erratic, hair a mess as it catches against the wall.

One minute.

“Wish you could see yourself,” Natasha pants, and she feels _empty_. Wants Sif’s fingers, her tongue, wants her inside, wants naked skin and Sif’s weight over her and the wet, slick slide of their sex. She’s grinning, feeling light-headed and manic, like she could do _anything_ , like she could destroy the world with a snap of her fingers, intoxicated on that hitch in Sif’s breathing that always means she’s close, that she’s trying to hold on that little bit longer. 

Unacceptable, time ticking on around them, and Sif doesn’t get to draw this out, she has to _take_ it, and Natasha’s dizzy, cunt pulsing with need, like her heartbeat is throbbing between her legs. “Fucking _riding_ me,” she growls, and Sif’s moan is lost under Natasha’s mouth when she surges forward for a kiss. 

Rubbing her thigh hard enough and high enough that Sif’s pushed up to her tiptoes, squeezing Sif’s wrists as harshly as she can. Feeling every sound Sif makes buzz against her tongue, and she bites at Sif’s lower lip, bites down and doesn’t let go, knowing she can be as cruel as she wants and Sif will only want _more_. Feeling Sif’s legs lock around her thigh as she bucks, whining high in the back of her throat, whole body undulating as she comes with Natasha’s clothed leg still working her through the pleasure, through the trembling and the aftershocks, kisses slowing but no less savage.

They stay leaning against each other, shared breath humid between them, and Natasha wants to bask in the moment, wants to continue, but she can’t.

“We need to go,” she forces herself to say, words slurring as Sif follows her lips for another kiss. She looks thoroughly debauched, sweat on her forehead and mouth flushed and _obvious_ , but Natasha will deal with Clint and Tony’s catcalls if it means they actually make the meeting on schedule.

It’s only decades of training her body to withstand being pushed to her limits that keeps Natasha from stumbling when she takes a step back. She can feel how wet she is beneath the jumpsuit, desperate for touch, and her fingertips tingle from gripping Sif’s wrists so tight.

But they’re going to be on time, that’s all that matters.

Only Sif isn’t stepping away from the wall. She’s staring at Natasha, chest rising and falling as she pants, fingers absently trailing over her own hip. Teeth digging into her bottom lip slightly as she smiles, back arched and hips canted forward, and Natasha feels a spike of pleasure between her legs just from looking, from seeing every way Sif plans to return the favour sparkling in her eyes like the very essence of _trouble_.

“We’re on a clock,” Natasha reminds her, but Sif only tilts her head, smile growing broader and more dangerous. 

“And yet you make no effort to leave,” Sif whispers, and Natasha hates how right she is, hates how it’s taking all her willpower not to rub her own thighs together just for the feeling of _friction_.

“We can’t be late,” she snaps with the last of her resolve, but Sif is already stalking forwards, predatory and graceful, and Natasha wants her hands on _skin_.

Fuck, Fury is going to be _so_ pissed. (Again.)


End file.
